Pick a lane and stay in it
About 10 years ago the missus and I used to spend most of our Sunday evenings at The Underground comedy club in Melville, engaged in an activity we referred to as “getting our weekly laugh on”. This was a comedy club put together by John Vlismas where professional comedians (and upcoming comedians) came to typically do five-minuters, to test out new material and sharpen their skills.
One Sunday evening, we’re standing outside the club during the intermission, chatting to a few comedians — Kedibone Mulaudzi, Chris Mapane and Trevor Noah — when a visibly excited fan approaches. He immediately launches into a series of oneliners, staccato fashion. The comedians have the same look on their faces as the hapless Poles in the face of the German blitzkrieg during the 1939 invasion of Poland. Finally, a slightly irritated Kedibone holds his hand up and hisses, “Stop doing that!”
Besides the transparent ploy to namedrop the impressive company I keep from time to time, there’s a point to this story.
It is incredible how many times I’ve witnessed this phenomenon. As soon as comedy fans come into contact with comedians, they feel an uncontrollable urge to be “funny”. To paraphrase Vlismas when an excited fan kept interrupting his set by doing his own “zingers” at the top of his voice, “Here’s how this works: I tell the jokes and you laugh, okay?”
One of the most hardworking comedians in the business is Skhumba Hlophe. For the past four years, he has been raising funds for the Skhumba Wheelchair Drive campaign, aimed at donating wheelchairs to
communities in need. The breakfast show team spent part of this past Friday morning in Ekurhuleni township, Katlehong, delivering wheelchairs with him. As is often the case when in public with Skhumba, members of staff at a particular school immediately discovered the comics residing inside them.
Skhumba’s brand of comedy is permanently straddling the edge, often stretching the boundaries if not outright breaking them. And some of the staff members at this institution were damned if they weren’t going to match him. It was a cringefest. Of course, they meant well. Except, of course, that they’re not even remotely funny. But that’s not breaking any new ground — 99% of humans are not funny. At all.
But this is not confined to the comedy space. We’re currently in the middle of Idols SA season. It is mindboggling what many ostensibly sane youngsters put themselves through, year after year. They wake up at the crack of dawn in some farflung dorp called Onnoselheidfontein in the butt crack of the North West, lather themselves up with bath soap, smear themselves with Vaseline, vigorously scrub their teeth, apply roll-on deodorant and take three taxis to get to the State Theatre, only to spend six hours baking in the unforgiving Pretoria sun. All so they can stand in front of a trio of slightly irritable judges belting a tune so off-key that the sound wafts over the Union Buildings lawns and annoys President Ramadonations into signing the NHI Bill without perusing it.
Fast-forward a few weeks and Idols SA TV viewers are being subjected to a donkey hee-hawing through a barely discernable version of Adele’s Chasing Pavements. At this point, pavements as far afield as Midrand are in proper flight mode.
At first, you’re convinced that they’re taking the mickey. It’s only when they’re standing there, eyes wide open, that it occurs to you, “Oh, damn! This child actually thinks he can sing!” And then I sink into a pit of melancholy. All I can think is how anyone gets to be 27 years old without anyone ever pulling them aside and going, “I know that you love Adele and you have a great ear for good music. The problem starts when you try to sing like her.”
There are many manifestations of this malady. I know a fellow with a particularly educated, sophisticated ear for music, specifically house music. He understands the technical ins and outs of how it is put together. He could probably author a coherent thesis on the genre. A few years ago, he started purchasing deejaying equipment. I was excited because I love few things more than watching folks discover their true passion in life. Then he invited me to his first deejaying gig. It wasn’t a paying gig but, hey, we all start somewhere.
The guy sucked more than 100 newborn babies at the Baragwanath labour ward. The fellow sucked so badly a group of women started singing Catholic hymns in the corner. On a Saturday evening. It was terrible.
On a totally unrelated matter, I know a young man who is obsessed with Steve Biko. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has read every word Biko wrote and every speech Biko delivered. Talking to him for more than two minutes without him invoking Biko is impossible.
I cannot fault that — I don’t think any of us espouse Biko’s ideals enough. Even when the young man grew an unwieldly beard like Biko’s, I didn’t think too much of it. After all, I sported a greasy perm during my Michael Jackson idolatry phase.
The day it occurred to me that something might be wrong is when I stumbled upon him enjoying a scotch on the terrace of an upmarket restaurant. He looked up at me and mumbled, “You know, people are starting to say that I look like Biko.”
‘Here’s how this works: I tell the jokes and you laugh, okay?’